Making time for the kids

Published: Thursday, November 22, 2012 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Wednesday, November 21, 2012 at 1:07 p.m.

For a fervent 6-year-old believer, this was the chance of a lifetime. Twenty kids deep in a line in front of Burdines, I glimpsed the edge of Santa's red velour knee.

I planned to spend quality time with Santa. We were old friends with a history six Christmases long. I'd mailed my list to the North Pole weeks earlier to free up conversation. I'd look straight into his crinkly blue eyes, and he'd greet me by name with his jolly voice.

As the line inched forward, elves in felt tunics flanked Santa, shifting their weight on curly-toed feet. One of them rolled her eyes, snapping her gum as a red-faced toddler arched her back and screamed like a wet cat, sliding from Santa's lap in a hysterical pile of white tights and Mary Janes.

My turn.

I was dismayed to discover that Santa had coffee breath and yellow teeth. His knee was sharp. His boot wasn't a real boot, just a black vinyl cover slipped over an ordinary shoe. Don't get me started on the beard. To make matters worse, he didn't recognize me.

"What's your name?" Silence. I was shocked. What's my name? How insulting. "Whadd'ya want this year? Been good?" he yawned. I glared.

Maya Angelou says people will forget what you say and do, but they won't forget how you made them feel. At 6, I learned this is true. Courtesy of Impostor Claus, I felt invisible that day.

Thirty years later, I am eating Thanksgiving lunch at the elementary school with my children. Parents are invited, but as a working mom, I know it's tricky to be in two places at once. Lots of children don't have a visitor, and I recognize many of them from the Boys & Girls Club. Some look like they might be feeling invisible, as if shuffled to one side by Impostor Claus himself.

The din is steady and the food is good, but suddenly, something in the room changes. The kids eating solo at my table sit up straight. They grin. Their eyes dance. There is a rush of energy toward the door where Mr. Mikkel, a Boys & Girls Club staff member, stands, high-fiving a table of second-graders.

Suddenly I get it. Every club kid there (and there are many) believes that Mr. Mikkel came to the cafeteria just to be with them — to celebrate them. This is how he makes them feel, like the most special and wonderful kids in the world. And suddenly, in their own eyes, this is what they are.

This is Boys & Girls Club magic. How is it made? By making time for kids. By really listening. By responding.

Each year, 1,500 children served by our club work hard to become their best because we help them feel — and believe — that they're worth it. As a result, our members, many labeled "at-risk," are excelling in school, graduating, staying healthy and growing into valued citizens of this community.

Years from now former members might forget specifics of our advice or exact protocol of our programs. But they won't forget how they felt walking through our doors: capable, respected, valued, challenged and celebrated.

Or how they feel in the cafeteria at this moment.

I catch myself smiling and put my fork down. I lean back and stick my hand out for a high five from Mr. Mikkel too. The kids at the table grin at me and I grin back. And it feels awfully good.

<p>For a fervent 6-year-old believer, this was the chance of a lifetime. Twenty kids deep in a line in front of Burdines, I glimpsed the edge of Santa's red velour knee. </p><p>I planned to spend quality time with Santa. We were old friends with a history six Christmases long. I'd mailed my list to the North Pole weeks earlier to free up conversation. I'd look straight into his crinkly blue eyes, and he'd greet me by name with his jolly voice. </p><p>As the line inched forward, elves in felt tunics flanked Santa, shifting their weight on curly-toed feet. One of them rolled her eyes, snapping her gum as a red-faced toddler arched her back and screamed like a wet cat, sliding from Santa's lap in a hysterical pile of white tights and Mary Janes. </p><p>My turn. </p><p>I was dismayed to discover that Santa had coffee breath and yellow teeth. His knee was sharp. His boot wasn't a real boot, just a black vinyl cover slipped over an ordinary shoe. Don't get me started on the beard. To make matters worse, he didn't recognize me. </p><p>"What's your name?" Silence. I was shocked. What's my name? How insulting. "Whadd'ya want this year? Been good?" he yawned. I glared.</p><p>"Hurry up," snapped an elf. "Smile," growled another, wielding a Polaroid and shaking a fractured candy cane. "OK, time's up," said Santa, shuffling me toward the steps. </p><p>Hmph.</p><p>Maya Angelou says people will forget what you say and do, but they won't forget how you made them feel. At 6, I learned this is true. Courtesy of Impostor Claus, I felt invisible that day.</p><p>Thirty years later, I am eating Thanksgiving lunch at the elementary school with my children. Parents are invited, but as a working mom, I know it's tricky to be in two places at once. Lots of children don't have a visitor, and I recognize many of them from the Boys & Girls Club. Some look like they might be feeling invisible, as if shuffled to one side by Impostor Claus himself. </p><p>The din is steady and the food is good, but suddenly, something in the room changes. The kids eating solo at my table sit up straight. They grin. Their eyes dance. There is a rush of energy toward the door where Mr. Mikkel, a Boys & Girls Club staff member, stands, high-fiving a table of second-graders.</p><p>Suddenly I get it. Every club kid there (and there are many) believes that Mr. Mikkel came to the cafeteria just to be with them — to celebrate them. This is how he makes them feel, like the most special and wonderful kids in the world. And suddenly, in their own eyes, this is what they are.</p><p>This is Boys & Girls Club magic. How is it made? By making time for kids. By really listening. By responding.</p><p>Each year, 1,500 children served by our club work hard to become their best because we help them feel — and believe — that they're worth it. As a result, our members, many labeled "at-risk," are excelling in school, graduating, staying healthy and growing into valued citizens of this community. </p><p>Years from now former members might forget specifics of our advice or exact protocol of our programs. But they won't forget how they felt walking through our doors: capable, respected, valued, challenged and celebrated. </p><p>Or how they feel in the cafeteria at this moment.</p><p>I catch myself smiling and put my fork down. I lean back and stick my hand out for a high five from Mr. Mikkel too. The kids at the table grin at me and I grin back. And it feels awfully good.</p>